


Shooting the Bolt

by saucisson



Series: Safecracking [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucisson/pseuds/saucisson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WIP, I totally forgot I'd written this.  I'm missing the wrap-up, or maybe just the seque into what happens post-Lisa.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Shooting the Bolt

**Author's Note:**

> WIP, I totally forgot I'd written this. I'm missing the wrap-up, or maybe just the seque into what happens post-Lisa.

Ianto emerged into the sunlight, pulling the hem of his jacket down to cover his trousers, his anxiety playing out across his face. This was alarming. Alarming, baffling, upsetting, confusing... and inescapable. This wasn’t what he expected at all. He didn’t want this. All he’d wanted was to get back into Torchwwood again. He had things to do.

***  
Jack watched him stalk out of the warehouse, flinching when Jack complimented the suit. Jones Ianto Jones definitely wasn’t expecting that at all, Jack thought. Oh well, it happens to the best of us.

***  
There had only been one other time. One time! and it didn’t count. It was just some fumbling in the dark when he was seventeen. He’d been drinking. He had cut through the park to get home faster and desperately needed a slash. Fine, the middle of the night, nobody was around to see. A man approached him with an interesting offer as he leaned against a tree off the path, and Ianto was surprised to hear the word Okay come from his own mouth. A quick grope, a hand slipping inside the waistband of his briefs, his back against a low tree branch and hands gripping the stranger’s shirt to stay upright, a few quick strokes and a hand clapped over his mouth to muffle his moaning, then it was over. He was drunk. He was a teenager. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t count.

Ianto had poured himself a second glass of whiskey, uncharacteristic for the night before a new job, but the events of this afternoon had him too wound up. In bed now, willing himself to sleep. Eyes closed but mind still racing. Grab tissues out of the box on the nightstand, fingers sliding under the drawstring of his pajamas. Ianto rationalized the act. It will help me sleep, he thought.

Jack’s fingers. I wonder what it would feel like if Jack did it? STOP! No don’t stop. Just this once. Just this one time. I’ll get off, I’ll fall asleep, I’ll go to work tomorrow morning and it will all be fine. It will be out of my system.

He let the fantasy come. Jack’s body on his, Jack’s scent in his nose, Jack’s breath ragged in his ear. One stroke, two, three. Jack’s hand not my hand, Jack’s fingers not my fingers, getting faster now. Jack’s mouth on his mouth, Jack’s thigh pressed against him, Jack’s cock against his belly and -- oh god ohgodohgodoh! Head back, muscles rigid, crying out at the power of throbbing, pulsing, radiating pleasure. The intensity was unexpected. 

His breathing slowly returned to normal, but the glow lingered. That should do it, he thought. That will get this out of my system. I can get one with things now. Behind closed eyes he saw Lisa, the way she was, before Canary Wharf. Lisa lying by his side, turning her head into his shoulder, one arm across his chest, his hand against her thigh, the way they always slept. The way things were, and they way they will be.

And just before sleep, Jack’s arms enveloping him and Jack’s soft breathing in his ear...

***  
Morning brought Ianto a clearer head. He pushed all thoughts of the night before out of his mind. People have all kinds of strange fantasies, things that make no sense in real life. Things they’d never do, and never want if presented to them in actuality. Its perfectly normal, nothing to ever think on again. 

Suit: pressed. Shirt: crisp. Tie: straight. Shoes: polished to a high shine. However he dressed in the off-hours, Ianto always did like to present himself sharply in the office.

The gears in his head were turning before he’d even pulled his car out onto the main road. He knew there must be a lower level there, someplace people rarely went. The structure had been there for over a hundred years, and had probably grown organically since then, adding on bits here, closing off unused corridors there as new staff improved the facility. As long as he could jerry-rig an electrical supply, he could keep Lisa there in (relative) comfort while he searched for someone who could help her. 

The London office had treated him as something of an afterthought, the quiet researcher who rarely spoke and could be counted on to bring tea and biscuits. Ianto was pretty sure they had considered him a bit of a bumpkin, something about the vowels. It would certainly do to make the appropriate impression here. The butler who blends into the background. The one you never remember is in the room when you spill your secrets.

***  
Jack watched on CCTV as Ianto enter the tourist office, dressed to the nines in a well-tailored suit complete with tie and polished shoes. Who is he trying to impress? he wondered, remembering his first encounter in the park, Ianto in baggy jeans and a t-shirt, with pooka shell necklace. Who still wears pooka shells? Is he a surfer? A fleeting image of Ianto shirtless (with a hairy chest, Jack had noticed in the park -- the incongruity of that choirboy’s face on a man’s body) on a breezy beach ran through Jack’s mind. What was he doing wandering around there after dark, anyway? 

***  
Ianto waited in the empty tourist office, hands clasped behind his back, reading the Cardiff tourism propaganda tacked to the wall. A metallic chunk made him jump, and he turned to see a door swing open to the right of the counter. Nobody came out of it. He waited for ten seconds before walking through.

The metal corridor turned to the right, and he followed it as it angled down slightly and ended at a landing in front of a large cog, perhaps six-and-a-half feet high. At his approach, the cog rolled back into the wall and Ianto found himself peering into an enormous cavern. A screech from above, and he looked up to see a pterodactyl -- his pterodactyl -- swooping lazily through the air. 

Come on in! a voice called out from across the cavern. Ianto stepped onto a metal staircase into the humming, whirring epicenter of Torchwood 3. His heart sank a little; this was a far cry from the spit-and-polish of Torchwood 1. The sheer amount of wires, tubes, sockets, plugs, valves, and arrays of computer systems appealed to his nature as a tinkerer, however, and his eyes took it all in, filing everything away for future retrieval.

Down here! the familiar voice called out again, and Ianto descended the stairs to find himself once again nose to nose with Captain Jack Harkness. He could almost feel Jack’s eyes travel slowly down his body, taking in every detail about him, beginning with a lengthy stare directly into Ianto’s eyes. Ianto forced himself to hold Jack’s gaze, understanding that looking away would immediately give Jack all the power in their fledgling relationship (if he hadn’t already surrendered all of that by getting a hard-on in the warehouse. Fuckfuckfuck. Ianto still couldn’t believe that had happened, and he tightened his jaw in his embarrassment.)

Jack noticed that too, of course. HIs smile brightened.

***  
Jack was impressed at Ianto’s exceptional self-control as he returned Jack’s look. Jack was certain he was remembering, squirming, and talking himself into keeping his features composed. And what features! Eyes blue like, like... like blue flowers. Or something. Whatever. Round cheeks and a mouth that formed a tiny frown, like a little boy (a naughty boy!), a face like an angel. Who knows what dark secrets lurked behind that Boy Scout exterior! Jack exulted briefly in the notion. An athletic build accentuated beautifully by the tailored suit. The third button was undone, and Jack let his eyes linger over Ianto’s trousers just long enough to make the younger man anxious. Down those strong legs to the dress shoes polished to reflect the winking lights of gauges and monitors that surrounded them on all sides.

Nice suit, Jack said, recalling the last thing he said to Ianto as he ran out of the warehouse.

Thank you, sir, Ianto replied.

‘Sir?’ Jack laughed. Hm. I like that.


End file.
